


A Tree by Any Other Name

by suckyatmaps



Series: A Momentary Lapse in Seasons [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Romance, really it's just a year of domestic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suckyatmaps/pseuds/suckyatmaps
Summary: A Christmas tree somehow gets turned into an all year round holiday tree – which Sherlock and John take turns decorating.Standalone.





	A Tree by Any Other Name

They had set up the tree last Christmas, stringing lights and vials of multicoloured chemicals onto its branches. It gleamed by day; by night, it twinkled, swathed in plush garlands. John had wanted it to be freshly cut, but the one Sherlock brought home was pure white – definitely not real. "Trust me," he had said, reaching up and placing the star on top; all silver and sparkles. 

Afterwards, tipsy and giddy, John gave Sherlock a celebratory kiss, trailing glitter across his face as his fingertips caressed his cheek. 

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

* * *

At the beginning of February, John had wanted to put the tree back into storage.

“I’ll handle it,” Sherlock said. John almost spat out his coffee.

A day passed. Then another. And another, turning over into a week. John glanced at the tree, knowing Sherlock couldn’t possibly have forgotten – he never did. He kept to his word when he cared enough to give it, even for the mundanities. There was probably some kind of ongoing experiment with it, though John couldn’t possibly fathom what for.

When he returned home on the ninth day, the tree had transformed. It was now threaded with velvet roses, a brilliant ruby red against the snowy needles. The fairy lights had been replaced by silver tealights, dotting the tree in miniature flames, flickering with every movement. A heart sat at the top, nestled in a perch of satin ribbons. John had been struck speechless by the beauty of it, mind reeling as he tried to comprehend the amount of effort Sherlock must have poured in. 

“Do you like it?” asked Sherlock, appearing from the kitchen. “Apparently couples have _traditions_ , though I’m not entirely sure what that constitutes – for obvious reasons – and I thought Valentine’s Day would’ve been the best day to start given its connotations with love and—” 

John stopped him with a kiss. “Idiot. Of course I like it.” 

* * *

He was fairly certain that Sherlock had already deduced what he was planning, but he had enough tact not to mention it. John had found a box of ornaments at the local charity shop and ended up buying them on impulse. The baubles were egg-shaped and split open at the centre, forming a capsule; platinum detailing swirled over deep, luscious colours. John had put a slip of paper in each and waited for Sherlock to fall asleep, though the deception was probably pointless. 

He hung the ornaments in between the roses, dodging the flickering candles as he pictured the flat burning down. Sherlock had launched into a lengthy explanation about angles and the optimal amount of wax the last time John had brought up fire safety, and he dearly hoped that staying out of Sherlock’s way would prevent disaster.

When John woke the next day, the other side of the bed was already cool. Still bleary-eyed and sleepy, he stumbled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, a faint melody drifting through the air. Sherlock was whittling away at the strings, carving out an intricate aria with his bow. He finished a refrain as John walked into the room, letting the violin drop from his shoulder.

“Morning,” said Sherlock, his eyes glistening. John was half-convinced he was still dreaming; he didn't think he’d ever see him on the brink of tears. Sherlock walked over to him, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and burying his face into his shoulder, the violin pressing against his back. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “What is it?”

“You’re the first person to ever say such lovely things to me,” he muttered. John’s eyes landed on the table, where Sherlock had opened each bauble and meticulously laid out the notes in neat rows. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and held him a bit tighter.

* * *

In the summer, Sherlock had relented to a celebration of their anniversary. They spent the day ransacking the flat, digging up memorabilia from old cases and putting up anything that was small enough to suspend from a branch. It formed a haphazard pattern of phones, newspaper clippings, and random miscellanea, topped by the deerstalker. To John's eternal relief, Sherlock had taken down the candles in favour of a garland of skulls.

“There's exactly one for every murder we've solved,” said Sherlock, beaming.

“And the unsolved?”

“Those are in my closet.” 

He stepped back from the tree and joined John at the table, a box of stacked photographs beside him. Together, they sifted through an album of corpses, crime scenes, and the occasional vista. John found a picture of the two of them at Dartmoor, taken at an outcropping of stone. Sherlock had his collar up and was pointedly ignoring the camera, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as John fumbled with the controls. The image had come out slightly askew, cropping out John’s ear.

“Wish we had more,” he said, which prompted an awkward attempt at holiday photography as Sherlock tried to find an acceptable angle. The tree was never fully in the shot.

“That has to be the most _hideously_ decorated thing I've ever seen,” John said, laughing as they shuffled through the photos.

“Isn't it?”

* * *

Sherlock had used Halloween as an excuse to dangle body parts on the tree, but John secretly suspected that he was running out of space in the kitchen. 

“They’re a bit of an, um, eyesore,“ said John, staring into the eyeballs of some poor sod.

“Mortimer Tregennis – died of some airborne poison. They’re rather cloudy, wouldn’t you say? Not my finest specimen, but it’ll have to do.”

“I don’t mean the quality…” he began, trailing off when he noticed that Sherlock’s attention had wandered elsewhere, gazing out the window. John sighed and returned to his laptop, figuring that it was pointless to push the conversation. 

A few minutes later, Sherlock whirled around, a quizzical expression passing over his features as he brought his fingertips together.

“John,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “Does it…bother you?”

“Sort of? I mean, it used to. Not anymore, though, I don't think. It’s just a fact of life, now, and I’d rather this than anything else. So. Guess not.”

“Mmm. People don’t usually say that,” said Sherlock, looking thoughtful. 

“No, really wouldn’t expect them to,” John said, pushing his laptop away. “Most people don’t want to think of themselves as a collection of individual organs.”

“But they are—” 

“We don’t like being reminded of our own mortality, Sherlock.”

For a while, Sherlock was silent.

“…I think I understand, now,” he finally said, grasping John’s hand.

* * *

It was almost December when John hauled out the Christmas decorations, which Sherlock complained incessantly about.

“It's a travesty, John – they're playing Jingle Bells in bloody November. November! What’s the point of a holiday _season_ if they’re going to torture us with this rubbish for months?" John ignored him, humming to himself as he placed a wreath above the fireplace.

“And the _parties_! Forced interactions with other people are intolerable enough when they’re sober, let alone after a few drinks—”

“Sherlock, could you lend a hand?” John asked, holding out the star to him. He gave it a disdainful glare before pushing himself off the sofa, his dressing gown billowing around his feet as he set it at the top of the tree. Then he reached over and picked up some ornaments, hanging them up underneath.

“It’s more balanced this way; you put quite a few near the middle,” he said, blushing. John grinned as Sherlock helped him string up the lights, his tirade completely forgotten. When the tree was finally illuminated, Sherlock's expression morphed into what could only be described as festive joy. Splashes of colour danced over the white needles, a rainbow medley scattering across metallic baubles. He pressed a kiss against John’s forehead, smiling.

Later that night, the hearth crackled merrily, throwing warmth and shadows across the room as John snuggled up against Sherlock’s chest, the two of them watching some crap telly. 

“We've had that tree up for a year, now,” John murmured, half-asleep. 

“And it'll stay up for many more, hopefully.”


End file.
